Where His Heart Is
by Lavenderpaw
Summary: Their family has been threatened, their very lives jeopardized and their wills repeatedly tested, now a lost ally attempts to pull apart everything they've fought for, suffered for, and died for. If there's one thing Hogarth and the Iron Giant will do, it will be to save everyone they can. Love has done this before, but faith in others and a higher power may be their final chance.
1. The born again star

_"The stars inside of you will turn into black holes." He told them. "No stars are born evil, but a star without faith will have it's light changed to dark." - _Hogarth Hughes, Chapter: 24, The Protector.

_Prologue._

**I.**

небо России, October 7th 1920...

His father called them all _kulak,_ wealthy, hard-working farmers in a sea of rampant peasantry reform, that was why the family stayed where they were and kept up their prosperous means. Father and Grandfather were not kind to laziness, dreamers included. And what did ten-year-old boys dream of anyway? A rebellion with a handsome payout for one, and hero worship of their home, village and of course the surrounding area of небеса was nomer dva, and - a loud fist pounded on the front door.

Inga looked up from rocking baby Isay to the long plank of feather-light timber Isaac I and II had built. Immediately her dark brown eyes cut to Sergei and the rag-draped, hairline-cut boy jumped from the barrel he stood on and ran to fetch his superiors. He stopped barefoot and itchy at the intended eventual nursery for his youngest brother - the three eldest boys in their own wares by now excluding Sergei - and knocked lightly on the thick, heavy walnut door of his elders' normal headquarters.

"Boy, ya check the ferment?" Father asked in his rough, Russian tongue.

"Father, the door, sir."

Immediately the candy bar-colored and shaped door swung open, causing Sergei to jump back three feet. Armed with nothing but their gleaming, well-buffed rifles, two similarily built men in fading gray work clothes and piercing light green eyes made their way to the front door. Inga gave her curious son a look to return to his stirring of Isay's by now very ragged and worn hand-me-downs. Though unafraid, Isaac II still used a security chain.

"Yah?" The tall, broad-shouldered man accosted.

"Man, we need many provisions. Peaceful cooperation is not a requirement, as it is barely a consideration. Give us your old bolt-actions or..." Long, pointed rifles were levelled onto his father, Sergei only saw that much as Inga rushed him and Isay through the small front room and into the second largest bedroom after his parent's. Sergei tried to see his mother.

She hushed him while clutching the five-month-old close as they exited the commotion.

The stagnant stench of hard liquor hit them dead in their throats as they crouched behind one of two huge steamer trunks in the otherwise bare room. Angry male voices conversed, swore and gave silver-tongued reasons as to why they couldn't leave; the children were not part of the reasons why. Sergei heard the unmistakable sound of Grandfather's gun loading and clicking.

Just as he tried to send his mother a pleading look to do something a sharp shot rang out.

Sergei yelped in horror. His mother stared in violent agony, too stunned to accuse him with her normally demure eyes, instead she clamped his mouth with her thin hand, muffling Isay's cries with her bony shoulder. Inga crouched instinctively in front of her older son as a total of three more gunshots pounded out into the gas-lit front room. Grandfather let out a moan.

Inga turned to read Sergei's expression; which gunfire belonged to which man?

Isaac III could tell her. Aleksander would definitely, even Ivan could give an educated guess as to who fired which round. Sergei shrank away, fear of rejection and, most prominently, a fear of _not knowing_ etched into his fair-skinned face. His mother scowled at him, her upper and lower lips tightening like an angry monkey in her own dark face. Isaac I was then in the room and dragging Grandfather along limply with his arm draped over his large shoulders.

The forty-three-year-old man looked dearly into his wife's eyes and kissed their newborn.

"Father?" Sergei tried to coax a half-hearted, man-to-man response out of him.

His parents looked upon him severely as they often did when he failed them.

The scrawny boy wilted as his father took his grandfather's gun and gave it to him.

"Go," Isaac I told him, "Off to the nearby villages to give word, if you see any Reds..."

"Father, I-,"

"You are a man!" He shouted at the boy with the same skin and eyes as him, the only son who was not as dark, thick and large. That was why he married Inga initially, those huge brown eyes and beautiful brown hair, supplied with the Dulov bulk, pedigree was a sure thing. Even little Isay Dulov was thick for his five months, but Sergei was puny, wrong...

"Grandfather is dead," Inga's shrewd eyes had determined even before she spoke aloud.

Isaac II shuddered violently and even Sergei could see for once it was not with a temper.

"Father-," He tried again.

"GO!" His father grabbed him up and manhandled Sergei out a half-open window.

"NO! No, I don't want to go!" Sergei screeched and actually used the gun to bar himself, twisting his little limbs around the long weapon. "Father, _please!_" he cried out as tears sprang from his eyes. Isay wailed loudly at the disturbance, Inga helped to straighten the weapon out and his father thrust up on the window. Sergei was shoved out into the night.

"Go!" Isaac II barked a final time. "And if you get the chance, aim for the heart."

Without one word of prayer from his mother, without one single look of encouragement, the window slammed shut and the front light in what to Sergei was the rear of the house went out. Gulping dryly and panting in ragged breaths, he clutched the gun to himself yet again as if it would come to life and protect him. With one more gulp of air that couldn't entirely choke back his near-silent crying, Sergei backed frightenedly into the brush. His round jade eyes darted this way and that in fear of the horrid Red Menace before taking off.

Sergei found quickly that his boots hindered him and so he yanked at their taut laces. The boy managed to have ripped both sets out at the top when he stumbled across the nearest home at the edge of his village in небеса. He regained control of his breathing as his small fingers pushed aside overgrown weeds - farmers spent time on farms now, no resources in these times were wasted - and picked his way into an empty backyard. It was much larger than his family's and was in the area his father considered beneath the kulaks. So why did these lesser peasants have more acreage? Sergei only left home to hunt with Father and-,

He stifled a watery sob as his trained eyes took in unfinished firewood and the well-kept handsaw next to it, a shovel left out, and - BANG! Sergei shrank back, remembering that sound. Then he remembered he was a disappointment. The boy gripped Grandfather's old rifle in his hands with forced bravado and ran through the backyard, then along the house and up to the front. He uneasily but curiously peered through two rows of tall porch slats.

"I'll ask you again," a voice very much like the other Red was saying, "where do you keep the most valuable items on this property? We want to make a good appearance, old man."

His company chuckled softly.

That's when Sergei saw an older man, like his Grandfather but younger, two women and a lean boy possibly a year older than him. Sergei pondered how he could see them and was quick to note the stars were unusually bright that night; he almost never came out at night.

"Again," A single-action revolver rose to the man's heart, "Where are your valuables?"

Sergei was picking at his laces again and finally managing to slip his boots off when there was something said he would never forget, "My most valuable item is my heart, good sir."

There was no hesistation from the farmer when he spoke this, nor hesistation from the Red.

_Pow! _

"Now," Sergei could hear the smile in the man's voice as one woman wailed, "a devalue."

The older boy had been shielded from the sight of the explosion, somehow the smell and sound didn't make it more real. _Seeing it, _Sergei stood gawking at the sight of it all. Why was this? Why was the man with his heart shot and the man with no heart standing alive?

He saw the curve of his jaw where it was still tugged up in the shadows, low chuckles infiltrated any surrounding sense of calm. Sergei's reality had imploded and the pounding of his own heart in his ears, rupturing his brain and skull, and the strong, almost pugnant cold air in his nose enraged him. This broken sense of secure normacly filled the ten-year-old boy with a rare, terrifying rage that jolted him to a man twice his age. Yelling like a banchee or an Indian, Sergei flung himself from his hiding place and forgoed all common sense.

Tears spilled out of his eyes as he shot wildly, taking no heed where he shot. Without seeing from his blur of waterworks the nearly gaunt boy dragged his mother and sister into the hole dug out, the very one where his father had collasped in. Sergei ran by the gaping pit of darkness, crying hysterically and throwing the long weapon in it as he did.

"Get the boy! He's killed Roland and Isaac."

Sergei threw himself into the tall corn crops and ran as fast as his thin legs would take him. He wasn't a man anymore, he was just a boy; a scared, God-fearing little boy. The collaspe of corn and the thick, dark grass was the last thing Sergei saw as he fell face first.

His entire little body heaved and sobbed with all he had endured in what couldn't have been very long at all. Smoke from fire filled his little nose. He didn't want to, but morbid curiosity was the only curiosity he had anymore. Sergei shakily rose to his feet and turned to see through dry, sticky eyes two pillars of smoke joining what collectively was ten or eleven pillars, all adjoining into one huge, heavy cloud of pure black. It was in Sergei's mind the death of hearts, for he couldn't even feel his own anymore. The boy clutched half-conciously at his chest and turned shakily to see the entire night sky ablaze in stars.

They were beautiful, but Sergei had never been much of an abstract thinker. He wasn't raised to be anything but practical or to think of practical thoughts. Practical dreams did count. He lowered his eyes from the meaningless night sky and breathed in the chilly air choked with thick fumes. Suddenly, a point of starlight eclipsed his face. He looked about himself to discover a metallic halo had formed around his head. "Sweet Jesus!" he fell on his butt and watched the encircling light rotate his entire body. _The_ _Reds... mind control..._

The thoughts sent chills to his suddenly stuck heart and he trembled as he watched four more silver beams of light strike out of the center of what Sergei identified as the North Star. He shivered all the way down to his fragile bones at the immensity of this presence.

Sergei fell forward and bowed before it, but something in his gut told him it was unholy.

"If you come to kill me, do it now." he quivered out the request. "I have lost Mother and Father, baby Isay and Grandpa. I have no more strength to carry on, but tell God to have mercy for I am but a boy who has sinned and killed possibly five or more men." Licking his cold lips, he somehow composed his breathing where he was still bowed. "And women."

After adding this with some consideration as to the importance of women in God's eyes, Sergei lifted his head to see the emcompassing silver light. It was peaceful, the boy imagined it was holy for it aroused a sense of long-forgotten faith in him from when he was five or six. He stood, not quite believing but starting to want to, hunching his shoulders straight.

"You are a boy," A whisper announced to him, a smaller, faded silver flash appeared in front of him and Sergei cupped his hands. "These are rudiment pieces to allow you to communicate in any language, it is you who must create them." The boy couldn't bring himself to look away from the metal arcs in his hand. "You can make a world all your own." he raised his speculating, wonder-filled green eyes. "A world that is perfect here."

Sergei thought he saw a shadowy figure in the light.

"Only God can do that," he whispered, but somehow he didn't believe his own words.

"Having observed the evolution of this world..."

"... We feel that it is not progressing properly..." Another voice spoke.

"But _you,_" the first one emphasized, "Can make the difference."

"I am not Prophet." Sergei explained automatically, but the gears in his mind were turning again in his lightly throbbing head. His heart filled with longing to re-create everything he had lost. He gripped the silver pieces in his hand. "What must I do!?"

"Allow us into your mind, we will show you the rest." A second figure appeared.

Something clicked in his head. Sergei's eyes widened and he remembered everything, what was happening had happened _before_. It was all happening again. The identity of who Sergei Dulov was in Russia, of who he became in America: Sergey Dimelo, of his empire-building, or this one instance when he came into contact with mysterious beings he would never see again except in the ideas that came to him, reverted to his mind. He remembered everything up until his re-arrest in 1965. He remembered everything vividly before that though: His many-great granddaughter Kina, 7000 and it's (his) clones, the gateway... Hogarth.

_Hogarth._

He shook his head slowly and looked up with new eyes, his recovered adult personality was at war with this newly-resentful young man one. Sergei didn't know if they knew, but he did know he had more knowledge than he ever had before. Dimelo knew he had a heart for his past and future family and he would get to that, now that he knew everything in between 1920 to 1965. The memory box was apparently still functioning somewhere within the universe, somewhere between now and the last of his memories. He sighed.

"I would be happy to join your cause," he made sure his rememberance of the English language wasn't apparent as he replied in flawless, nearly cheery Russian. Sergei knew these aliens would mentally supply him fractions of useful information for both himself and his own plans for the next thirty-plus years. Who had need of God anyway?

It wasn't Sergey Dimelo who would need one, once he found out his fate after 1965.

He allowed them to fill him with unnecessary knowledge before they slipped away fast. Sergei Dulov's body travelled away from the grassy knoll and he was almost a single-minded robot as he kept his other memories at bay and walked to the post office so he could send a telegraph to his older brothers in America. The cold still made him shiver.

...

~ Lavenderpaw ~


	2. Rider in the night

**I**.

It was a dark, desolate night. Shadows traversed the country road in streaming arcs and curves. The blackest parts of all, however, were the walls that rose on the long stretch of broken, crumbled roadway. Even as the moon and stars glowed and glittered in the night, not a sound or creature was seen or heard. There was nothing here, no one at all.

A spark of light in the slant of dark gray came.

_VROME! _

Something like a black jet, a streaming torpedo, sped by.

Another flash of light but it wasn't from the rear.

Then, a whizzing, flashing circle of red dots swooped in after the renegade torpedo. This was followed by more swooping, patrolling creatures. They came in tens, even perhaps twenties, emitting a low hum as they sped along.

Suddenly, a piece of the shadowy torpedo twisted itself around to look at it's pursuers. It appeared to be a head. When the flash of it's tinted goggles showed, the vrooming torpedo revealed itself to be a bike... a motorcycle. The rider suddenly flipped it around in an unexpected jerk and put up their hands in the next second, surrendering to the dots.

As the circles of red slowed and floated over with surprising ambivalence, they were revealed to be gray machines with no faces; only blade-wielding, drone-like creations. There seemed to be an almost casual cockiness to their victim.

"You guys win," A muffled, male voice said with mock modesty.

The bots pressed forward while moving their blades into an inward, satellite-type of manner. Beneath the shaded goggles and chipped helmet, a brow went down in expectant glee.

Then, a grin pulled up from under two tan flaps, "That's what I was hoping for," the person whispered, gratified. His bike suddenly roared to life as he flashed a fused weapon and fired an explosive boom up into the air. Repeated booms like firecrackers distracted the drones as the rider floored his bike under them. They re-registered quickly. The rider threw a string of sparklers into the air, dove around and in the last few seconds of confusion, drove away on his original route.

The drones buzzed louder as they sped up. Tightening the left handle of his bike, the rider threw another string into the air. This time, the drones zapped it simultaneously.

"Last one," the person muttered. He swerved his bike into some overgrown bushes and lowered his head against the coming assault. When, suddenly, their attention diverted.

With his eyes flashing open in shock, the rider lowered his arm and saw to his amazement that the drones looked every place but where he was. Blinking, the rider looked down at his tan leather pocket and saw a sequence of blue dots. In a second surprised blink, the wide-eyed person looked back up. The drones, never blinking themselves, whirred away.

"Well," he gasped, not registering how close he had gotten, "You've never done that before." The rider pulled a bulbous grey screw from his pocket to examine it. Rubbing it against his jeans, he placed it back inside and gave his pocket a few pats.

The rider glanced from side-to-side from his hiding spot in the bushes, pulled out his bike and kick-started it back to life. He made sure his belt-bound package was secure and then headed on to his destination with the hope he wouldn't run into anymore drones. The night around the rider glowed a little bit lighter.

To be continued...


	3. The Last Boy of Rockwell: Pt 1 of 2

I.

The rider walked wearily through the quiet, very oddly boarded-up main street of a small town. He was so tired he could barely push the motorcycle forward; the result of another long, endless night.

Still, he did treasure his down time.

As the sky grew lighter, the rider ended up at a broken-out drugstore. He pushed the chipping, rusted black Harley under a large board which served as a ramp and pulled half a couch over it.

The rider then stepped out from underneath his makeshift basement and pulled off his olive green helmet. Shaking out his copper hair, sixteen-year-old Hogarth Hughes glanced brieftly at the beat-up buildings facing him and then out towards the sea.

Once his wary eyes assessed there was no danger, the teenager gave his bulging pocket a secure pat before tramping up the shaky piece of plywood. He slouched a little as he did, falling into a tired walk with his hands deep in the crease-ridged leather of his Bomber jacket. Finally he reached what would have been the little window right above the door.

Hogarth slipped under an X of wood planks and let his breath escape with ease as his feet fell sturdily to the ground. It had _definitely _been a long night. The teenager looked around the cluttered circle and then hung his head as he slumped over to the middle. He heaved out a sigh before sitting down cross-legged.

"Criss-cross apple sauce," The teen smiled, sarcastic, as he pulled his ill-gotten goods over to him. He was more thoughtful as he opened up the flaps and lifted a single Twinkie from it. "These used to be bigger."

Hogarth gave the rock-hard cake a good knock on the linoluem. It was disheartening, but not really a surprise. He got a few more out and experimented.

All rock-solid.

"Well," Hogarth continued in the same dry voice, "At least they're good for something." he retrieved half a dozen and aligned them around in an almost neat circle. Hogarth tried to smile more positively as he searched around for a scrap of newspaper. "Oh... I guess I didn't find any." he laid a hand on his head.

The teen looked around and his severe mellowness resurrected itself. Hogarth leaned back against a box. His eyes searched the tops of the cluttered piles; pop bottles, toys, wrappers, even all the medicine bottles in town were collected around these towering walls.

As he absently rested his feet on top of the Twinkie box, Hogarth came to a truly disheartening decision.

Robotically resolved, he turned and numbly gave the box beneath his head, for there were so many brown, cardboard boxes containing stuff around him, a tug and peered less listlessly inside of it.

There lying perfectly even and perserved were his comic books. He breathed in and out in anticipation and laid back inside the indention of his junk walls.

Hogarth reached inside and pulled out Roy Rogers, Beyond Terror Tales and several DC hero books. It had once made him smile to see these when he was ten... twelve, fourteen. Hogarth laid awkwardly and tossed the five fifties comics into the Twinkie pit. He then absently picked up the next few and tossed one in at a time like they were no more then a card deck.

After quickly discarding Boy's Life - Mad had sadly been lost to boyhood - Hogarth came across the last two. He held up the comics he had stored at the very bottom of this box; Atomo: The Metal Menace and Action Comics Issue # 188, the comic his father had given him ten years ago in January 1954, Superman.

The teen looked back and forth between the two, it only took him a few seconds to ponder over before he tossed the face of the giant robot into the uneven pile. Hogarth almost comfortably placed the comic back into the box, took a turkey baster and squirted the last of his gasoline into the last of his paper. All wood and food Hogarth had recovered over the last seven years had offically been used up. He struck a match and tossed it into the pire, his expressionless face finally lighting up. As the last warm remnants of September faded, Hogarth gave his pocket a pat.

A mushroom shape with two protrusions shaped it.

To be continued...


	4. The Last Boy of Rockwell: Pt 2 of 2

I.

Sunlight panning through a low-hanging fir tree caused Hogarth to moan slightly. He twitched his nose and placed a soft-lit hand to his face. His left nostril and ear were a red-tinged pink as he rolled up and groggily observed his surroundings, nothing but the sun lighting on a row of rock caught his eye.

There was nothing to see but blue sky and sunlight. Hogarth licked one side of his lip, smiled excitedly and rushed for the edge. He paused to check himself once before flinging his body off the clifftop; he very quickly began free-falling and pinwheeling forward.

The rush of the air whipped around Hogarth, almost blasting through his body with a giant POOF of air. He grinned widely and felt tears pass out of his eyes.

His heart picked up with his joy. When his arms and legs bowed upward to the next burst of air, Hogarth closed his eyes and imagined he was flying up in the clouds, his copper hair and cap whishing back. Just the hint of something holding him up, as if he were a toy plane flying now, made him extend out his arms.

Hogarth felt the wind pass through his fingers, sheets of pressure becoming more solid, real, like someone was actually touching him. Tears fell from his eyes again as he gripped the air, he opened his eyelids to face down the steel blue undertow with a smile and flung his arms around so that he now fell back first.

"Backwards... SUPERMAN!"

He held the familiar posture one more second before landing peacefully in the sea with a smile, he broke through the calm water and righted himself, then he swam to the surface. When Hogarth popped out of the water, he looked around to see if anything flew.

Assured that he could dine in peace, Hogarth pulled a small striped bass out with just his teeth. The tide bounced him around a little as he took the fish by the hand and peered around at the sea. There was utterly nothing around, as usual. Hogarth inhaled a relieved lungful of air and straddle-paddled ashore as he exhaled; he had perfected pain-free fish diving.

...

Hogarth was still picking fish bones from his teeth as he strolled along the rutted street of Metropolis Blvd. The teen knew this because when he reached the end of it, he glanced up and saw black marker scratching out Main View Rd, or had it been Main Avenue St.?

The bushes and trees, unravaged unlike the rest of the forest, opened up to reveal a world of jagged craters, ingrained soot spots and broken pieces of debris. No birds sang, no bugs flew away. Hogarth stared with a remoteness he had perfected over time before sighing and smiling lazily out at the wasteland, remembering.

"Escape attempt number four," He glanced up at a wooden-handled white jump rope and a trampoline obscured partially in the growth, "Earned me this..."

Hogarth revealed a pink scar on his left shoulder, it was long and thick. "Escape attempt number seven," he glanced over at a dismantled shovel and the small crater beside it, "Goes to this one..." he lifted his old, but unratty white T-shirt; two scars crisscrossed here.

"Number twelve..." Hogarth mused with a crack in his voice, looking down at the first area where he'd tried using an M-80 firecracker to fight back. It had been a while, but Hogarth looked down at his tummy.

A clear, shell-pink burn under his navel showed.

"And number one," Hogarth looked out at the only thing that wasn't broken... his old ray gun, laying not forty feet from him amidst the wreckage. Hogarth knew that someone could reach that; that first time he had turned to ask him to reach it, only then realizing what had caused the end of Rockwell, the end of life and the end of Time. Hogarth was the sole surviving human in this town... and he couldn't even leave it.

Taking another breath, he turned to walk away.

To be continued...


	5. New arrival

I.

Hogarth pushed his bike along the same rutted street he had taken the night before. _Supplies were limited, _the irony was enough to cause him to grimace. Not much else caused him to show emotion much anymore. He peered up inqusitively at the broken branches, his feet easily avoiding the familiar ruts. Something wasn't right; fly bots never ceased this long.

A giant stomp rattled the ground. Hogarth's breath hitched in his throat and he only paused a moment to gather his wits about him. It couldn't be... _Eight years, eight years! _Instinct took over; Hogarth pivoted on his seat, used his boot toe to tap the key and the old black Mustang thundered forward.

The large, looming shadow seemed to almost gallop-crawl toward him. Hogarth's widened eyes quickly narrowed on the oblong shape and he yanked a long metal pipe. He lit a match but saw the dreaded taper gun funnel out from his handbar mirror, Hogarth dodged quickly as a green lazer zapped out at him. Taking the distraction, Hogarth struck another match, lit the ends of his thirty bottle rockets and positioned them at the arm. Red... familiar eyes leered at him. Hogarth was caught up again when the lazer zapped.

A loud whistle pushed him forward, causing Hogarth to miss a pothole. The impact of the disintregating fireworks and black powder propelled Hogarth and his bike through the air. The teen let out a scream as they were both spun over the tops of the thinned-out forest. Hogarth felt fright streak through him as the world rushed around him. _Mom... Dean. Gi-, _his thoughts were immediately cut as something broke his fall. He cluched his jacket pocket, feeling several more metal tubes and long strings of smaller tubes pressed up tight. The teen clutched himself even tighter, waiting...

...

There was the expected thud. But... nothing hurt. Hogarth looked himself over and laughed once. "Ha ha! _Yes!_" With a double-fist pump, jump up, he grinned like this morning.

"_Ah_!" He yelped and leapt away as his black bike crashed to earth with a sickening crack. Hogarth rolled to his hands and feet, looking at the bike like a life-long friend. "Oh no," he whimpered, scrambling over to his downed cycle," The child reached out and laid a hand on the shiny black paint.

Sunlight had begun to disappear behind the trees as dusk reached the lonely boy. Hogarth vaguely realized he was breaking one of his own rules; staying out after dark for a reason other then survival. All day had been spent in search of... He felt chest heave, the robot had to be close. Hogarth placed both hands on the warm metal of the only machine that had helped him... he felt the ground rumble in rhythm.

Hope drained out of him as he struck bike with his fists and let his head fall forward. The rumbling kept up as the earth drone drew near. It was hopeless, Hogarth was going to die.

One more fruitless punch to the shattered bike and Hogarth felt something pop out of his jacket. He looked down with dry, heavy eyes and saw the Giant's jaw screw beside him.


	6. An entity in his own

"_Whether in the intellectual pursuits of science or in the mystical pursuits of the spirit, the light beckons ahead, and the purpose surging in our nature responds." _

**I.**

Hogarth picked up the lifeless bolt and looked it over, he turned it over and over in his hand. Eight years of waiting... the droning grew closer, and yet Hogarth could not find the urge to say it was over.

He hung his head and peered pleadingly at the bolt.

His rough lips pursed together as he recalled all the endless, countless hours he had talked to, dreamed about and prayed for. He had nothing without this bolt; no sign of life, no ray of hope... Knowing the end was almost there, Hogarth glanced over to his bike one last time. It lay crumpled and useless. _A pretty tasty snack, I'd be, _he smiled and thought.

Sending the Giant's bolt a fond look, Hogarth rose from the ground and wandered over to kneel beside the only other creation capable of "life" and laid his cheek against the places he had punched in. Hogarth looked up and noticed the black top to the fuel tank.

He looked down at the bolt as the drone's silohuette filled the background. "Why not?" the teen said with a wry quip. Hogarth screwed off the faded cap, blew on it once and then screwed in the bolt while all the while hearing a lazer cannon levelling up to destroy.

"I love you, little Giant," His eyes pricked. The zip of the cannon fired up as Hogarth laid his cracked lips against the top of the Giant's bolt and breathed.

Hogarth did not recall anything after this, because in the next second the bolt jolted to life and gave him a conk to the forehead. The teen smiled goofily, twice blinked and fell to the side as the lazer beam sizzled stream-life down at him, only for the entire opening to be surrounded in a glow of deep, radiant blue light.

...

"_Uhh..._" Hogarth stirred.

The gray-purple of night was a screen around him and if he remembered right, he was dead and all of the people he'd ever known were waiting for him. It was a fleeting hope, and a guilty despair. Don't think that way, he told himself, Killing is... Hogarth rose with a sighing groan. It's bad to kill, not bad to die.

"Something like that," he murmured tiredly, looking around the dark grass with vague interest. There had been times where Hogarth unexplicably survived; he would be in the threshold of doom only to awaken in the empty forest alive. Hogarth never knew how and in more recent years he had started to wonder why.

"Why in-,"

Vrr-_oom_! The oddly gentle noise made him jolt to his feet, Hogarth brandished his machine gun - two long strings of firecrackers trailing from twin lead pipes - and saw the bike standing up straight, headlight dim.

"Oh..." He lowered his weapon with a disarming grin and laughed, feeling himself again, "It's just you, for a moment-," Hogarth balked, fumbled and returned.

His hands trembled as he looked dead center into the big headlight. There was no kickstand down, he had turned on no engine, his tremors coursed throughout.

"I-I... D-Dean?" The teen's voice shock, he tried very hard to rationalize, to calm himself. "Dean, buddy, is that you? Guy, I'm sorry for taking your bike but, I-,"

The motorcycle jolted forward and Hogarth jolted to his back. He froze like a statue, horror on his face. It was finally happening: Hogarth had been alone for so long he was finally going insane. Better just accept it.

"Okay, Dean's ghost," He sprawled out and closed his eyes; death wishes were all the rage this evening, "Do your worst, let me know how James is doing..."

Nothing.

Hogarth opened his lids and sat up with a puzzled look. "Look, I'd really rather you just kill me now then let me go on knowing I've lost my sanity," he pleaded with the machine, "I wanna see him again."

James Dean wasn't what he meant this time and this wouldn't be what the Giant wanted. Hogarth looked away and his whole face crumpled in pain, oh God how much he missed him... oh God how he loved...

The teen buried himself shamefully in his hands.

"Voom..." The bike purred softly. Hogarth looked up, his eyes round with tears. He blotted at them with his knuckles and saw something familiar in the big light.

"Giant?" His voice was so small.

The light blinked.

Hogarth's air hitched and he paid quick attention on his hands and knees. "Is that you? Do you under... I mean, do you know what I'm saying?" It couldn't, no.

The headlight dipped forward once. Yes.

Deer-like, Hogarth stared back, "Are you him?"

Blink?

Shakily, Hogarth rose his finger. "One blink for yes... two for no." Blink. "Are you the Giant? My friend..."

Hogarth watched warily and felt so gulity for his lack of trust. "I believe in you... do you believe in me?" It was still. "Are you the Giant?" Hogarth encouraged.

A second passed, then the headlight blinked twice. Hogarth bowed his head in respect, then he asked was anyone from Rockwell alive. The light did not answer: I don't know. "Is the Giant alive?" Hogarth asked with more grief, but more without hesistation.

Another second... the headlight blinked.

"YES!" Hogarth leapt in the air, no gravity held him.

"Can you take me?" he recovered and gripped at the handle bars, "Can you take me to see the Giant?" The light blinked twice and completely went out. Hogarth was left standing, holding the bike, his mouth open in the process of trying to grasp this answer. His release on the again useless machine caused a stray piece of metal to pop out. He looked down before he gathered himself to the fact the motorcycle could not take him.

The seventeen-year-old bent down and picked up the Giant's screw bolt, the one thing he had awoken with eight years ago, and now knew that every piece of his big friend was it's own entity, it's own mind and even it's own soul. Hogarth just happened to share a close kinship with his big ol' brain and nifty little jaw bone.

To be continued...

To be continued...


	7. The past present forward

I.

Hogarth wandered along with his switch, swishing and whacking the air absentmindedly. His eyes gave the sky a scan every few seconds, the irony of almost subconcious paranoia not lost on him; if never really fully understood for it's deeper implications. Finally the teen arrived at the forest bend before the tracks.

"What's it been...?" He wondered in a whisper. His shoulders fell slightly as he "bravely" wandered to the rusted, though undisturbed tracks; the big metal guy really _was _good at restoration. Hogarth smiled.

The toe of a stranger's boot brushed over the trail of wood and steel as the memory of last night gave the old boy what he needed to continue down to a very devastated farmhouse: weeds, kudzo and enormous stretchs of Johnson grass forested the Hughes' home.

Hogarth felt his shoulders slump even lower as he pressed forward. He scanned the bottom porch in a quiet forlorn, reserving his full attention for the big space between the home and barn. Two cracked-up headlights peering out from a half-eaten tractor was enough to make him smile and ease up to his house.

What was left in his childhood home was nothing; a full raid five years ago after Hogarth had worked up the courage to come here still didn't give him enough of a reason to want to venture back in. Nothing but want for love and hunger had brought him here. He didn't know why he was here now, he didn't even in all his hopes and wishes believe there was something to the bolt coming to life. Hogarth dropped his head.

As he turned to leave a movement out of the corner of his eye made him peer over. Hogarth turned very slowly to see the doe he had spotted five years ago.

His eyes widened: This was the first living creature he had seen on land in nearly half-a-decade. He was quick to shake off the bad mellowness and dig into his other pocket. A sugar cube - the last one to his name - appeared in the leathered center of his palm.

The teen squated to his knees in the shorter grass, holding out the sweet square much as he had five years ago. Hogarth's tenuous feelings rested solely on a tentative whim. The deer could get spooked, the deer could run, Hogarth could crumple in the trappings of his own-personal letdown. He waited.

"Teh, teh, teh," He clicked his tongue, "Come on."

Hope spiked in his heart as the old deer lifted her head and examined the treat with curious eyes. He did everything he could to lower his anxiety. Biting on his lower lip, Hogarth spoke to her softly, gently,

"You and me... we're all alone," he said this exactly as he had last time, "I won't hurt you," his eyes filled and his voice cracked; the deer lifted her head as if it were nothing should Hogarth fall apart. She gave the young man one more blink and started to turn away.

Hogarth should have gotten angry and shouted like last time, but he didn't. He simply stood up calmly, breathed once, and walked away himself. His steps took him blindly through the mid-day forest, dark clouds had fallen over the interlacing pines. Where untouched trees ended is where field really started.

He lifted his head a little more dutifully and moved along until he reached the tall chain-length fence of Dean's old junkyard. Tugging his mouth down to the side, Hogarth reached up and clasped the thick chain trailing down from the huge padlock. He recalled all those years ago climbing up to the top to peer in and see his friends playing inside. Hogarth breathed once and yanked the unlocked gate back. Inside had been raided by the drones, nothing but depressions in the ground were left. He swallowed hard and walked in.

Hogarth let his eyes pan over the place - _his_ favorite place Hogarth now realized - to lay down and rest. It was enough to make him smile dreamily. The boy let his mind wander as his feet pulled him forward. Not a thing remained of Dean's office or the huge place where they had hid the Giant, especially after the place was ransacked for coffee. He moved along until he saw the place the Giant had proclaimed:

"_Superman,_" Hogarth spoke in tandium with his memory, his brows arching up in pain. He clutched at his heart and turned to look at where the bus had been scorched. "You almost did _that_ to Hogarth!" It was Hogarth again who said this, "No... wait, stop."

_I... I not-,_

Hogarth barrelled around and dashed for the exit.

...

He was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the start of town again. To keep himself together, he noted that it was rare for him to lose his breath. The teen made sure not to think of his name. He did not look at the towering trees or the groove in the forest that led to a lit opening. His eyes followed the path he dared not take; not tonight. Hogarth curled into himself and fastened his arms over his head, waiting for the pain to pass. The pain that was the dreadful, ever-present knowledge that everyone in his town was dead because of the missile that had landed in Rockwell eight years ago; and that the rest of earth was infested by aliens, and it was all Hogarth's fault.

To be continued...


	8. Hoping for haven: Part 1 of 2

I.

Hogarth rubbed at his cold nose and looked up at the cloudy morning sky. Sighing softly, he let his eyes wander over to the big indention in the trees.

The boy massaged his achy head and pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Criss-cross..." he trailed off wearily, his voice cracking in thirst. Hogarth just sat there staring without any motivation, or hunger, or a real purpose. Maybe he had the flu? _So much for fly-diving... _He looked at his feet and shook his head. What was the point? No one would ever find him, no one was looking for him. The Giant. Even if he was alive, he might not even remember... Hogarth tightened his lips and bowed his head, stifling a sob.

He got up so he could start over the hill that would take him past the harbor's edge, when a lightening -fast shadow caught his eye. Hogarth flipped out his remaining pipe gun and aimed for the place the bot would appear. He scanned the horizon like an elite G.I., one of his only strings of firecrackers swinging back-and-forth as he bared his teeth. G.I... that was Galvanized Iron, his grandfather had told his father;

...And Hogarth was holding a galvanized iron pipe.

The teen lowered it down, the will to fight having eluded him again, and he raised his hands up in the tentatively voluntary gesture of surrender. _There's that death wish again, _Hogarth lowered his arms and was about to make a run for it when a pair of antlers pushed through the overgrown vegetation.

Hogarth's eyes widened when he saw a three-point buck walking towards him. This... this wasn't even possible. It had been _**eight. years**__. _since Hogarth in all his hopes and worries had seen something alive other then fish and that doe... and the bolt he kept.

Believing what he saw, doubting his ability to keep faith, Hogarth pulled out the tiny cube of sugar and held it out even more doubtfully in front of him. The deer blinked and started over towards him, big, dark eyes riveted to the hardened snack. Hogarth tightened all his muscles as the buck lowered his snout, sniffed and started to amazingly lick at it. The teen parted his lips waveringly, reaching out to stroke it's thick neck.

The dark eyes flashed up to meet his and he pulled his hand back. _Don't tempt fate, _Someone had once said. Hogarth again tried to reach out and touch the deer, just to see if this was real, and the deer leaned forward again to sniff his fingers. Odd that Hogarth should see a buck after all this time, it was just like-,

_Dead?_

Hogarth pulled his hand back and looked at the deer like he had when he was nine, he then shut his eyes and drew in a slow breath. Decidedly, he pulled back the sugar cube in his other hand and started the short way home. He was just getting out to where the light grey mist from the harbor was rolling over the long-deserted sconers and fishing vessels, when he heard a light tread behind him. Hogarth turned to see the deer obediently following him; a deer that wasn't afraid of humans? He frowned to himself and kept on walking.

It wouldn't be right to take the wild out of him.

To prove this, Hogarth grinned and punched up at the air. He ran down the winding hill that took him past mutilated trees, hole-bearing businesses and any material Hogarth hadn't been able to use for warmth.

Also, this was a strictly no-metal town.

The wildness came back to him, he lost the last pair of boots he had and ran like a seasoned sprinter full-tilt back down to town. Hogarth finally made a chill-in-throat stop with his bare feet slapping up dusts in big puffs from the road, clasping his knees he started to half-crouch to catch his breath when a noisy sort of gallop came up behind him. _No way, _he thought.

Hogarth turned with a rightly perplexed look to see the deer standing not eight feet away; like a lost dog.

This reminder made his heart sting and he shooed it away, feeling like his mom. The deer just cocked his head. Hogarth stared back hollowly. "There's just no way," he spoke to the symbolic stag, the croak in his voice gave him the same infliction he had as a boy. If Hogarth remembered correctly, boys usually used up their youth wanting to turn into men. Not the other way around. "It's been too long, he couldn't want..."

He couldn't _want _me? Or it couldn't happen?

As if the deer got the hint, Hogarth watched it twist it's head to stare back at the forest, it's pointed ears pricking. His chest fell as it wandered back the way it came. "Good," Hogarth spoke quietly and headed back home as well; he then launched himself after it.

To be continued...


	9. Hoping for haven: Part 2 of 2

I.

Hogarth pushed through bushes and wayward tree branchs before stopping at a wall of white spruce. It wasn't just his hard breathing that made him stop, or the odd coincedence of it being the anniversary. For Hogarth, following this deer meant it could be over.

His family could be waiting for him beyond here.

The seventeen-year-old took a deep breath before making one more final, literal push... into nothing but more trees. Hogarth bared his teeth and angrily smacked the next tree in his way. He growled like a bear and snarled, clawing childishly at brushy limbs.

Maybe _this _would scare that stupid deer off.

Hogarth slashed and stumbled his way into a small clearing. "Dahh-_ah_!" the wild animal slipped on a spruce branch, hitting his head square on his temple.

"Oww," Hogarth moaned feebly and rubbed at his head. Without energy, he closed his eyes and laid his entire self down. That's when he felt something lick his ear. "Ah!" he rubbed it roughly and looked up in accusation. "Hey!" His drained eyes widened.

The stag stood before him with it's shoulders arched back and it's head held high. Proud, strong. Hogarth was suddenly no longer afraid as he placed a steady hand on it's firm neck and brought himself up on his feet. When he looked past the deer he saw an entire herd of does and some fawn grazing about. Hogarth was without words as he and the stag watched their charges with staggered breath; it was right then that the teen realized he had been protecting them for as long as they had been in these woods, his last home.

...

Noon came and went, just like the leaves came and went. Another year came and went. Everything in this world, whatever was left of it, came and went.

Everything, except for Hogarth.

The teen looked up at the sky from his perch on the edge of the cliff. White, misty clouds dotted the blue forevermore. Bored with that, he looked down at the cold, cresting surf below. Hunger welled like a knot in his gut but he was too apprehensive to move from his curled up position. Hogarth wondered, he waited and wondered. He felt himself slowly starting to tilt forward, much like he used to feel gravity shift him when he closed his eyes and pretended to fall back.

But this time, Hogarth didn't stop himself.

_I'm sorry. _He thought as he closed his eyes.

Lights blinded him and Hogarth was so alarmed he barely had time to stumble over himself to get back.

Two perfectly round balls of bright chalk white were gazing back at him. Hogarth was puzzled to the core. His memory rung with familarity but he could not in this particular state of mind find it in himself to feel joy. Or... or anything. The face looking back at him was a face he had imagined a billion times, but the eyes were wrong. This wasn't who he was waiting for.

But this _WAS _an iron giant!

Hogarth raced back and looked up to ponder at the huge robot that rose before him. The giant blinked, it's jets whooshing below it, and rotated around. If metal was what it sought it was out of luck. Hogarth was aware his reaction should be more emotional, but he couldn't help but marvel silently at the gigantic guy.

It was all he could do to trace every feature of him.

The teen shook his head and called out to the bot:

"Big metal guy! _Hey!_" Hogarth was surprised that once again his voice cracked. His heart stopped as red eyes flashed to where he was; the teen had no ammo left. He had nowhere to hide. _Oh, God._ But the scarlet orbs dissipated like headlights going out.

Hogarth watched as the giant mechanically turned it's head from him and took off over the trees. Even the sonic boom of it flying away didn't phase him... for it, strangely enough, didn't disrupt where he stood.

"I gotta get outta here," He said in a paper-thin voice.

To be continued...


	10. Bridging the blaze

I.

Clouds dark and foreboding covered the sky in a mass like gray wool. Everything was quiet. For the first time since he'd awoken alone in the middle of the town, Rockwell, Maine felt like a ghost town.

Hogarth checked over the silver bends leading up to his handlebars... and clutched them. Sporting his old helmet, googles and his grandfather's WWl Bomber's jacket, Hogarth eased his bike out of a thick wall of overgrown bushes. The teen gazed up warily as the giant scanned around the edge where they had met.

Something like Deja Vu kept hitting him and it took him a moment to remember; the last time he'd worn his entire flight suit was when he was with the Giant.

Pulling his goggles to where his forehead was, he got on and saw the giant shake it's head fast once before gazing up at the thickening clouds. Hogarth braced himself with uncertainty as the giant readied itself to take off, this could be his last time ever in Rockwell.

The teen swallowed hard and closed his eyes. There were people waiting for him somewhere and Hogarth wasn't going to find them stranded here. He placed a sign on the back of his fender and revved the engine.

Without checking itself, fire pulsated out of the big metal man's feet. Hogarth recalled with clarity when the Giant had hovered over the ocean. Not here, not on the cliff that somehow looked so familiar. _It's me, _someone said in Hogarth's mind. _Hogarth? _The big metal guy who was his friend asked. His imagination felt like a memory! Hogarth gunned the dark Harley.

The seventeen-year-old rode his bike with a ferocity like he'd never known. He was going to see his friend again! Hogarth's eyes opened wider when he saw the cliff coming up too fast. Quickly, he grabbed up what was the last coke bottle of gasoline, lit a match and threw both down behind the sign: _Freedom or Bust_.

Tiny flames burst forth from the fireworks that sparked to a bright fiery of orange and yellow. Hogarth clinged to the bike as his stomach turned into cool liquid inside a bottle. The giant prepared to take off and it was at this time Hogarth felt the heat in the center of his gut. He looked down with rueful amusement at his old friend one more time, patting it:

"Sorry Dean's old bike."

Hogarth then grabbed the bolt from his pocket and leapt as far as he could as the old Harley started to gain altitude at top speed. All this took less then 7 seconds and then the teen felt himself propel into a bright blaze of glory. The atmosphere behind his lids diffused softly like the sun setting after a long day of laziness. Hogarth almost chuckled at the irony: when was the last time he'd known peace? He gasped then.

As his eyes opened Hogarth found himself clinging to something thick and metal. The teen shuddered a little at the thrill of this. He looked up along the big, rivted back of the metal man. Confusion tightened his face. There was no way... Hogarth slowly turned and saw the misty shores of Rockwell, Maine drifing very rapidly away. Time slowed a little as his eyes took in the olive-green foliage and broken buildings, a sheet of light grey mist then came out of nowhere. Hogarth lowered his goggles with his right hand and noticed that his left hand clung to the bolt that somehow had dug itself into the metal heel like a magnet. The teen at this point could only sigh and lay down his tired head.

_Home, _Hogarth thought, his cheek cool on the iron.

To be continued...

**A/N: **Next chapter begins a new story and I hope to have at least thirty chapters. :)


	11. Welcome to New Robocity: Pt 1 of 2

**I**. A hidden compound, location classified...

"JAH!" Kent Mansley hit his fists against the large console.

He felt his shoulders rise and fall heavily in an unusual effort to try and control himself. The 54-year-old was starting to feel proud of himself when the swoosh of a door opening made him whirl around. His shoulders dropped; his efforts for naught.

"Womanly," Sergei Dulov smiled with accustomed wicked glee, somehow hidden neatly behind a veil of ever-present calm, "What are you up to?" he prodded, "Drone exports?"

The harried redhead ground his teeth and turned back to the issue at hand. "_No_," he managed to respond curtly, his eyes roaming the ever-changing monitor, "That's just _it_. There's no reason for the drones _to _be exported, it's been two days since Hogarth has been sighted. RRRR! Let's just destroy the original _now_! If Hughes has dropped, what's the point?"

Sergei's smile turned more pointed as he lumbered agilely over to the monitor and hit a small button that revealed the exact global location of the Iron Giant copy. "It is all about knowing what to look for, my dear woman. A Giant clone drone appears in a forgotten hamlet, a lost little boy thinks he's found his only friend." his middle finger pushed up on a ridged, light grey wheel, zooming in on the big drone, "And what have we?" He grinned. "A black spot but no shadow."

Mansley leaned in with him, his chin grazing Sergei's broad shoulder caused the Russian to tilt slightly to the right with an unamused look, and the two observed that there was an obscured space on the giant's heel. Kent leaned in further.

"He's cloaking..." His whisper confirmed years of doubt.

"I thought you were married," Mansley pulled away with an embarrassed grimace. Dulov eyed him skeptically. "Well..." he sniffed. "Mayor Mansley, tomorrow I expect the newly remolded Android Marketers device up and running. When I meet with the younger Hughes, we can discuss terminating the Giant further. But for now I need them both, um, alive."

"It's amazing," Sergei rolled his eyes at Kent's fascination, "How one man can go back in time by allowing himself to naturally move forward, with the knowledge he's acquired from a previous lifetime. To improve his and all man's fate."

"Yes, Mansley," His superior tried to suppress his smile as he walked out the door very similar to 2200's, "I believe the proper American phrase for it is called, 'Having a life.' "

**II. ** The Limestone Air Force Base, October 8th 1947...

Curly, lash-ringed eyes scanned the skies looking for trails of smoke; women clutching purse bags of various size, some with their flowing locks down and bouncy, others with their ringlets sprayed stiff to their heads, stood with literal bated breath here.

"Waiting" was a naughty word, this was their privilege.

Now if only their honor...

"Planes!" A yappy voice let out, then said again, "Planes, girls, planes!" It wasn't just a statement, it was a cue. Shiny snaps on the women's name brand purses popped open; lipstick, eyeliner, blush... there was no real order, but crimson was quite popular.

...

The base was so abuzz with clamoring ladies, Johnston Curtis almost reckoned they were all junior high choir students. He scanned the horizon as his was the first plane to actually be allowed to roll over from the tarmac by his squad's lieutenant.

He saw bright colors, heard frantic voices and instantly felt the vise-like fingers that pulled him down like a school of starving fish yanking a poor fellow overboard. Johnston tried with zero luck to be a gentleman and remind them that their own men were on their way, when his own personal angel revealed herself with her quiet beauty and lyrical eyes.

The other women watched for a moment and then turned to mob the next airman to barely climb down from his plane. It took a force greater than will, but Johnston smiled tentatively and approached twenty-two-year-old Annetta Camille Hughes.

Annetta observed him with a knowing smile as he fumbled for the favor he had insisted he give her before his test-run. While ladies fondled, loved on and cried upon their men, Annetta laid a gentle hand on the breast pocket of Johnston's badges. She made sure his heart was beating proudly under her touch, before she smiled with true delight at his return and his face fell in relief.

She fingered his nose playfully and the two shared a deep kiss.

Other men tried, and failed, to get the same response.

...

"You're meeting my parents... finally." Annie told Johnny as they walked with their fingers interlaced through the gigantic hangar. His eyes roamed freely along the ceiling as he smiled.

"Whoa..." He started.

"Johnny," Annie gave his arm a firm tug and he quickly flashed her the perfect white teeth that had gotten her to finally say yes.

"Sorry, I was just admiring how enormous this place has gotten in just a few months," he sighed proudly as he pocketed the tips of his fingers in his pants and held four of Annie's with just his thumb. Her thumb slid lovingly into his as she clutched his sole remaining arm with her other arm and the two admired this feat.

"It's almost like a giant could fit in here," he marveled softly.

"Now Johnny, don't talk like that." Annie began to scold him as was often the case when he began to fantasize. The twenty-one-year-old man dropped his shoulders as he turned to listen to her dully as she spearheaded a conversation about her parents again.

"You know my dad likes you," he said bluntly. She looked up at him abruptly. Johnny shrugged his shoulders, "He's the one who got us together, Miss Hughes." Annie smiled at him "wickedly".

"Oh! What happened to my perfect airman?" She said "coyly".

When Johnny tried to take it further, he could only pause when he heard the other girls flirting and giggling, their men expertly indulging them. Well, here they were and Annie was the picture of patience. Johnny sighed with relief knowing he didn't have to pretend when their families weren't there, he was about to relay his feelings to Annie when someone snapped the goggles which still hung like a lanyard around his neck off so fast he stiffened.

"Robbie!" He whirled on his best friend and mess hall attendant.

"John," Robert Robinson started to aim the goggles like a pair of underwear at him when he saw someone that made the man jump to attention, stand perfectly erect and salute like a robot.

Annie and Johnny turned to face their WO5 Warrant Officer:

Mr. Daniel Johnston-Curtis.

...

Annie's emerald-green eyes opened. The Iron Rails had made no noise but this wasn't what awoke her. Her happy dream drifted to the failed meeting this memory played out to. She sighed so inaudibly that her breath fogging up the window of the silver rocket train was the only thing that alerted her. She pulled her coat around herself as the smooth shuttling halted noiselessly, like the air being sliced.

"Ish tar gano kish," The Ominish-automated voice said.

The thirty-eight-year-old woman looked up in defiance.

"Translate!" She protested. Everyone within earshot and nearly halfway up the train turned to her. Annie persisted:

"Translation."

The blank screen processed her demand.

"IR 426781 has reached the City Center."

"Thank you," she replied as if it were sentient. With the quiet resilience that came with self-martyrdom, Ms. Annetta Hughes gathered her corduroy knapsack and her few other belongings before exiting the IR with deliberate slowness.

"We have other stops to make, lady!" A man with a nasally Chicagoan accent criticized her; why he had been living in Maine at the time of the Refuge she would never know... or care. Annie stepped down the hovering chrome steps (there was no iron permitted in the city) and entered the World of Today: New Robot City. Or as the mayor called it, Robocity.

To be continued...


	12. Welcome to New Robocity: Pt 2 of 2

I.

Annie Hughes walked with a sense of distraction into the normal-looking apartment building she rented in. Because she lived in the lowest standards possible, the chrome-type chandlier only lit the rectangular foyer in a dim light. She bypassed the elevator made of the same material and took the stairs. Cinderella's room hadn't looked nearly so high in comparsion to this place, Annie remembered, as she at last reached the top floor and let herself into a tiny, unassuming studio. Everything was normal to the point of being barren.

She sighed quietly and went to the small kichenette to make herself some green tea. As the light around the city grew to a mute glow, Annie moved with the white cup in her hands and went to sit on the small window seat overlooking New Robocity's downtown district. Her face was solemn, but the imagination she had rekindled in years' past wandered now.

As her auburn head fell against the white wall, Annie began to remember her son's face as he smiled up at her just a few days before their lives had been stolen forever. His ball cap had fit snugly over his forehead, giving him a cropped look.

Her son's eyes had glowed as the Boston Red Sox had just won in the small malt shop — on Color T.V., no less — and Annie couldn't remember the last time she had seen him so happy. It had to have been a year and a half earlier... Annie stifled a sob and clutched at her face. Tomorrow would be October the 8th. Eight years. She gave a small shudder as she took in the strength she needed to dig into the cushions.

Annie retrieved an old notebook and sighed softly. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the woman opened up what was the sole-remaining item she had of her son: She'd been meaning to ask him about his strange drawings. Annie went over the crudely drawn deer, the rock and tree, before she finally settled on the one thing she resented more then even a failed marriage to Kent Mansley: a very crude picture of The Iron Giant. The woman bristled, tears welling up in her eyes as she glared down the thing that had taken everything from her. Her son, her home... her husband. Annie trembled in tortured rememberance and flung the notebook sideways.

Some of her long hair fell in her face again.

In only her soft, dark blue pants and long-sleeved, light blue top, Annie curled in on herself to sleep. She absently tucked the fallen hair strand behind her headband this time and let out a weary sigh, recalling Kent mentioning that her Johnny had been in the same compound the Giant had escaped. It was with his and a man named Sergei Dulov's direction that half the state of Maine lived in a secure, hidden metropolis.

It was here Annie had been trapped for eight years without the knowledge of her son's fate, without any sense of hope.

...

Somewhere above the city a dark figure flew like a hijacked meteorite between small, pale gray wisps of clouds. If there had been any storms the previous night, it would have taken no heed; nor would the odd little hitchhiker clinging to it's back heel.

"_Gyent_..." Hogarth mumbled as a cool, smooth breeze blew back his hair. "Mum, shut the window," he continued in a quick, quiet voice. What the still-sleeping teen seemed not to be aware of was the Giant clone lowering ever gradually back down to earth. "Ugha," he groaned. "I'm... Superman."

Grinning rather foolishly, Hogarth released his secure grip on the bolt and immediately went free-falling through the air. He felt the wind hit his back and, sighing happily, he flipped around to the feel the air rushing against his face. For Hogarth, he had never fallen far enough. Now, with his grin stretching even wider, he thrust his arms out against the resisting air pouring around him. But he was not along as the thing that fell after him was the bolt.

It spun in an almost graceful spin after it's mesmerized host.

The ground was coming up fast and Hogarth's smile was so peaceful as he felt this dream was going to come to a very wonderful end. They were only a thousand feet or so from landing when the bolt sparked an alarm blue and propelled itself down faster in the next spark. Hogarth caught it right as it flashed by his hand, an instinct eight years in the making. His brow furrowed as a quick flash of blue light engulfed his closed lids and he finally sensed the ground.

_What the-?_

"D_aaaaaa_h!" He screeched as a lid fell over him. Hogarth breathed heavily and clutched at his knees, scared. Panting, the teen quickly looked around the dark recesses he was in.

Had he been captured?

Like a frightened animal, Hogarth glanced up at a crease of light. It was normal enough. The teen tried to calm himself as he slid four fingers between the line of light and pushed up. Rising very slowly, Hogarth looked around what was a cement and brick-slabbed alleyway. His eyes briefly caught sight of people passing before Hogarth realized he was in a dumpster and rather disconcertingly stumbled his way out.

"Whoa," he gathered his bearings, "What was _that_ about?"

The teen absentmindedly wiped some trash off of him as he searched the skies. Where was the-? Hogarth gasped a little. With erratic rationalization, he sprung back in like it was a piece of play equippment and dug a dusty, smeared paper out of the green bin. Hogarth knew it's recentness wasn't very important as he flipped through to Page 1 determinedly.

He composed himself as he finally reached the front page: "New Robocity." Hogarth spoke the newpaper's name. His eyes cut to the right, to the most imporant detail, the date:

It read October, 8th **1965**.

"Eight years..." Hogarth whispered in disbelief.

The teen gazed over to the people filing past him, none of whom seemed to notice him, and grinned, "People... actual _PEOPLE!_" He cried in astonishment. Hogarth walked over to greet those of his own kind, tucking the bolt safely away.

To be continued...


	13. The Unwelcome Wagon

**I**. Unnamed island, 1950...

"You're sure this was a good idea?" 1st Lt. Johnston Curtis-Hughes stepped down from his Fletcher FL-23, bag in hand.

"Nope," His routine flying partner 2nd Lt. Robert Robinson dug around for his things, "Gotta tell you, First Lieutenant sir, I think you'd lose your medals if they weren't attached to your heart." He was kidding, but Johnny rubbed his chest anyway.

"We report to the Captain at 1000 hours," The man told his best friend and second-in-command, checking his watch. "I think we should scout out the area to make sure there's no-,"

"Remember our first bomb run, John?" Robbie sighed and plucked a blueberry from his purple, velvet bag, "Ooo! Have you ever tried Blueberry Rum? Bacardi Wolf Berry, my dear friend." Johnston leered over at him before wiping his brow.

He wondered if Robbie would ever know the real reason he was here with him, let alone why he was 1st Lt. of the USAF in Limestone. But... Maine was a long ways from where they were. The man scanned the odd subtropical foliage encasing their surroundings before bringing out his dad's old machete.

Robbie's joking nature faded as he leapt down eight feet and came over to place a hand on Johnny's good shoulder, who in turn resisted the urge to shake it off, "Let's go, B-ball," the 1st. Lt. was almost smiling as they headed to a large metallic compound partially-hidden from view. Robbie chuckled once:

"Admit it, Curtis, you'd be lost without me," he patted at him.

Johnny whacked his hand back, grinning, "Hardly."

But he saw Robbie take offense to his earlier comment.

"Rob "Butterball" Robinson," he gave his gut the pat instead.

His friend sighed softly. "The term is "Butterbar", 1st Lt, but I forgive you your lapse in foresight. _Yes_, inactive duty often requires continual abdominal maintenance, not Wolf Berry rum and second helpings of lobster quiche. Am I right, Rob?"

Johnston grinned as the man poked worriedly at his belly.

"Does it really show?" he winced, grinning back. "Keep it up and I'll be as abdominous as a woolly mammoth, John-Boy."

"Not like you'll find one out in these parts," Johnny joked. He really started to admire the large rocky plateaus off a ways from the compound. His mind drifted back to the swamps and forest that had existed before Limestone came around.

He sighed.

"Johnny."

"Yeah?" Now the man really noticed his friend. "Yes, Rob?"

Robert's light brown eyes grew slightly wary under his black brows. "Johnny, these old trees look... well, old. Really old."

"Almost ancient," Johnny whispered with a nearly-forgotten gleam in his eye. Robbie noticed his old friend resurfacing.

"That's the Johnny I know," he smiled sincerely.

The First Lieutenant breathed deeply in and out, "Inside we go."

As they went to give orders to the rest of their squadron, an unsettling feeling came over Johnston and he looked back at his white plane; now more then ever he wanted to be with his family. He closed his eyes once and then continued his path.

...

Annie came out of the bathroom in a flourish of warm mist and smelling of _Femme de Rochas_. She thought the sweet, musky odor made her feel older yet still sophisticated. The twenty-five-year-old woman pushed her long hair back and ran her fingers through it, inhaling in the deep aroma of her perfume and freshness. She smiled with shy smugness as she made her way out into the large, post modern decor; it was something Annie had never really known she wanted.

_So much for that big farmhouse in Maine_, she smiled, wryly, and closed her eyes as she flung back on her chic sofa. The black leather pressed pleasingly into her face as she cuddled deep into her warm, faux-fur bathrobe. It hadn't always been this way, to be sure, but Daniel and her parents' insistence that Johnny be in the army full-time had definitely paid off.

Annie, Johnny and Hogarth would never be without.

She sighed slightly and opened her emerald eyes. The big room in Portland, Maine suddenly felt empty and here she was, alone, with her son sleeping soundly in the large room adjacent to her and Johnny's master bedroom in their brand - new convertible apartment. Annie felt tears fill her eyes now.

Sometimes... it was very hard to hide her doubts. She didn't want to struggle, not at all, but she just couldn't picture her son with carefully jelled-back hair in a boring, clean uniform.

So, what was wrong? This life was exciting... wasn't it?

There was a soft knock at the door and when Annie Curtis-Hughes looked up from her tiny couch she saw a white letter with a golden seal on it under her door. _Huh, must be for the next gala_, she thought as she approached to see an 'M' on it.

...

**II**. New Robocity, Oct. 8th 1965...

Hogarth moved toward the crowd of people like a magnet to metal, drawn more instinctively then rationally to those of his own kind; for once. The irony made him break out into a grin.

_People_... **_LIFE_**.

No one seemed to show any particular interest in the rugged teenager until he started to laugh in disbelieving happiness. Hogarth then pushed himself through the first of the watching people, plowing excitedly through the unsuspecting crowds to look at everyone. The surprised people barely had time to react as he went up to the next person after them, he was a lost puppy with a wagging tail and they could only stand still.

As Hogarth was bumped along further down the sidewalk, he saw something he had dreamt of seeing for years: Everything in intact. He grinned again and came to place his hands on a brick-covered building, "Brick and cement... unbroken, with no holes blown through it," he observed the glass window and saw his eyes glow with excitement. "Gla-ha-hass," he gave a chuckle as he placed his hands on the large-decaled surface.

"Unchipped, unshattered..."

Hogarth gasped, spying a television set. "TV..." he went to his knees as the passerby watched him uncertainly. "Hah! It's in color, too!" he stepped back, trying to contain his awe. "I've never seen this cartoon, but hey! _Whoa_..." It was an ordinary, olive-green lamp post. Hogarth grinned at the painted, ornate metal like it was a smiling sun. He happily tapped his boot on the sidewalk and, spying a fire hydrant, ran up to give it a hug.

"_All this time_..." The teen was almost delirious with joy. When he stood up again, he gasped in surprise. His eyes swept one long row of standard-looking, but somewhat updated cars. To Hogarth, however, it was more then he'd ever hoped to see in the eight years he'd been lost. Hogarth felt like crying, he was almost to the end of the block when he spotted something that was very beautiful: a bright, red '54 Cadillac. He almost rolled his eyes with an excited rumble in his throat. The teen drifted over and sprawled out on the hood with a smile, he crooned:

"Now all you need is a dent here," he bumped it once with his fist, "and there," He bumped it again. "A couple of bites taken out of you and a faded paint job, and you'd be just about perfect..." The teen hugged the hood again and laughed heartily. "Ah, BABY. It is good to be BACK." Hogarth flopped his entire self onto it.

The blaring sound of a horn broke his restfulness. Hogarth's eyes flashed open and he flipped expertly back onto his feet, brandishing a surprise pipe bomb gun he had for emergencies and rotating it around like he was under attack back in Rockwell. It took him a moment before he noticed the shocked man sitting inside of the vehicle. He observed him, glanced down at his makeshift weapon and then grinned apologetically, "Whoa! Sorry about that. 'Been a while."

Hogarth prepared to climb down when a rumbling of the city below him caused him to gasp and look up in the direction of the skyline, hopefully. The man gasped and tried to start his car. He balked when Hogarth climbed inside.

"Hey, what's-?"

"Here, take the keys!"

"But wait, no, I'm not gonna-,"

"_Please_!" The balding man practically threw them at Hogarth, jumped over the door and ran for cover. Hogarth looked down incredulously at the keys in his hand before letting his messy head fall back, he then withdrew the jaw bolt from his pocket.

"Well, my first day back and already I'm in trouble." The fact that the bolt wasn't bleeping caused a frown to tug back the sides of his mouth. Suddenly, the earth shuddered again. He glanced over his shoulder in alarm and saw a huge, looming object in the distance behind a backdrop of massive, black skyscrapers. Grey clouds caused whatever it was to seem more menacing. Hogarth gritted his teeth and looked down.

"Stealing's wrong..." he glanced at the bolt, debating. A quick look around told him everyone had fled. Something dark, the teen didn't even want to look back again, seemed to slither down a few streets from them. His breathing picked up as a metallic sort of hum whished closer and closer, it was hollow, haunting in how almost silent it was. Hogarth gripped the keys and then turned to the bolt. "I know this is wrong, but we gotta find him."

The teen then strapped the bolt into the passenger's seat, took what he knew truthfully was his last weapon and slipped both his boots off. Hogarth quickly turned the engine on with his left toes and pushed down on the gas with his right foot as a four-squared hand as big as a car shot out down the main road. The Cadillac sputtered once before peeling furiously away from it's pursuer. Hogarth pulled the helmet from his jacket and flipped it. As three added mirrors folded out, he placed it on his head.

Hogarth then held his weapon over the seat aimed at the big creature's hand. He tried, and somehow didn't fail, to avoid a full-view of the large creature. He instead grinned over at the Giant's bolt, "If we live through this, I'll let you drive next time."

With that, he made a tight turn bearing right.

...

_PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH_.

"Mmmm."

Annie tilted her head against the lumpy, messy window seal, her mind a hundred years away in Portland, Maine. The loud rap continued again and she moaned once more, rubbing at her eyes with half her blanket curled up around her. Daylight fell in mute rays through the window and a faint rumble made her look out. A long, dark creature undulated down Robocity Blvd: It was the Android Marketeers 2.0 on patrol. The city was being swept and everyone had already been evacuated.

To Annie that meant one thing: she plopped her forehead dramatically into the crease of her forearm. _PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH_! "Uhhh..." she peered up. _How_ many times in the last eight years had she told the city personnel she would not, under any circumstances, vacate her apartment if there was a slim chance the machine would find her only hope for life?

Her only reason for living was if her son was still alive.

PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH-PUH! The door could almost be in danger of breaking, especially if they somehow got a mech guard in there. Annie groaned out a growl and threw off her warm, temporary security, ripping savagely for the front door.

"Whoever it is, you better have a damn good-," And the face she saw waiting for her was one she hadn't seen in eighteen years.

A wrinkled, familiar deadpan of a face that brought back an entire lifetime she had forgotten.

To be continued...


	14. The Missing Link: Pt 1 of 3

_The colour of my soul is iron-grey._

_\- Debussy._

**I. **New Robocity...

Annie had found herself in quite the unique situation, all things considered. _Daniel Curtis? _She refused to think his full name. No, he was dead. Just two of them, not all three.

Something instinctive clicked then.

Annie stared, mesmerized, into the familiar eyes and face of her late husband. The wrinkles and deep-set frown were not apparent at first. Annie had to grab the knob to steady herself, "Johnny," she breathed, unable to steady her heart.

Some knowledge lit the old man's familiar eyes. "No," he seemed disappointed now, "But after all you've been put through, I could see where you might make that mistake."

Daniel tried to grab her arms and she instantly shot back with a hiss under her breath. He looked at her in surprise and then his face turned remote. "Annie, it's okay. Just let me help you inside..." She shook her head, stepping away.

"What are you doing here, Daniel?" Annie grabbed for a kitchen chair and settled for sitting on the table's edge. "I thought you were killed looking for..." she couldn't keep the suspicion out of her voice. He leaned against the edge of the counter adjacent to her and she noticed that a fifty-six-year-old man, he was quite fit. Daniel noticed this, too.

"That's not important right now." He said, answering both of her questions at once. His brown brows hunched further down. "What I need to know is where your son is, Annie."

Annie felt her own red-brown brows rise. Why did _he _care about a grandson he'd only met once all of a sudden? And, why was Johnny no longer a priority? Did... did he _know_?

"Daniel," she rushed him and grabbed his arms. He stood absolutely still; when people usually did this it had a very different meaning. "Can you get me out of here?" Against her better judgment she started crying as she continued to plead quietly, frantically, "Do you know where my son is?"

His shoulders fell slightly. "You don't know where he is?"

Annie felt herself deflate and defeat was so customary it was second nature as she closed her eyes, resigned, and placed her forehead against his chest. Her arms dipped in as she loosened her grip. It wasn't her son or her husband.

But it was close enough.

Daniel huffed out a breath through his nose; a normal man would have at least placed his hand on her head. But, if she kept her wits about her, he was normally honest. Annie met his eyes and stepped back. He examined her a moment, so many questions in his eyes reflecting her own, and sighed.

"Annie, I apologize. I can't imagine the hell you must have been through." Daniel watched as she set her thin lips into a hard line, he knew she was surprised by him caring at all.

"I couldn't find him," Daniel explained.

She sharpened her response. "Why are you looking for my son, then? What's going on, Daniel? If you know why..." It turned out, as in her insufferable marriage to Kent Mansley to pump information on where Hogarth was, she had not in all this time grown comfortable casually discussing robots.

"It would take too long to explain..." He turned and backed away as she repeated his explanation angrily, interchanging _would _to _ALWAYS. _Daniel was as apologetic as he could be by the time the "_?!_" ended the first round of her rant. "If he comes by here looking for you, tell him Dan's been looking for him. He'll know." This was a mistake, he saw her latch on to the prospect her son was in the city. But Annie said,

"So you'll be back." She was quiet again.

Dan recognized the certainity in her eyes, he also saw what he knew was commonplace but had hoped against all else that he wouldn't find here; that even someone as strong as Miss Annetta Hughes was capable of breaking if she'd lost enough of her soul. He turned before she could see this, but she did promise him something before he vanished entirely.

"I'm going to be waiting, Dan, just like I've been doing for half of my life." His eyes drifted back to hers. "And don't think for a second I won't be watching." She stalked him and he lumbered back. "Don't let the robot hit you on the way out." Her hand found the knob and she managed to almost slam the door in his face as he slowed his steps.

_Never was a Curtis. _He thought, glaring at the wood.

Undeterred, Daniel gave the missile-burnt jaw bolt in his pocket a squeeze and headed for the next best place to find a person in the year 1965: City Hall. He'd find that boy yet!

The violent shift of the earth eighteen floors up made him reconsider a moment. Daniel clutched down at the lapels of his WWI bomber jacket and hurtled for the large steel door leading out to the fire escape. He threw it out of his way in time to see something hundreds of feet tall slithering past him; all the man could do was gawk at the huge machine.

...


	15. The Missing Link: Pt 2 of 3

**I.**

Hogarth was starting to have doubts about outmaneuvering this kraken-like machine while driving backward, but as he caught flashes of more and more street and concrete being ripped up, Hogarth felt more and more of his innate need to get this creature somewhere it couldn't hurt anyone. The teen fired multiple rounds of wadded up newspaper at it — he still had and gunpowder and one pipe left — to which the robot promptly shot blasts the size of peas at him. Looking at the appendages, Hogarth felt a familiarity.

Maybe it knows him, he thought, lowering his lead pipe.

At that moment, one of the lasers shot at his hand and he barely missed having it zapped off as he swerved into the wrong lane. His weapon went flying and Hogarth switched around so that he was manning the polished automobile facing forward. He was about to floor his speed to 90 when a blast hit his fuel gauge and sent the car careening off into a random alley.

"Ahhhhhh!" Hogarth screamed, ducking under the steering wheel to hide. He plowed into tin can after tin can and the only thing he could think of was retrieving his jaw bolt. The teen wrenched himself from under the steering wheel and tried to reach for the bolt. A shadow darkened what was already an overcast sky and Hogarth cringed, waiting for the blast.

But… there was nothing.

Hogarth quickly unbound his bolt from the seat belt it was strapped in, holding it up to his face and then clutching it close. He set it down right beside him and tried to start the engine. There was a click, but nothing.

The teen frowned and tried the wires again, still nothing.

"The fuel tank," Hogarth remembered, slapping a hand across his brow and then falling back against his seat. He looked down at the bolt and in that moment recalled his crazy dream the night the goon bots vanished.

The connection that they must have left because a clone drone of the Giant was being sent in to see if Hogarth was still alive wasn't what he cared about the most. Hogarth picked the bolt back up and, staring at it pensively, felt the deep, crippling loss of his friend. The teen chucked it across the car seats and rammed his forehead into the steering column.

"I know I always said I'd never give up, I know, I said I'd always believe… but it's getting harder and harder," he didn't want to say it, "to believe you still care about me." Hogarth said instead. His breath caught rapidly as he tightened his eyes closed. "Just give me some sign. I'm trying, Giant. I'm trying so hard to believe you ever really existed." he then said very softly,

"_I need you_."

An alien green cast suddenly filled the wide space in the middle of the dashboard, lighting Hogarth's face as he leaned solemnly into the metal part of the wheel above the horn. He tightened his closed eyes against the light and slowly opened them. The teen was shocked to see the red dial on the radio shoot back and forth. It switched from AM to PM but no voices came out of it. The modulating sound of the machine was ghostly but rather than freaking out Hogarth checked his fuel gauge: E. Trying to remain practical, Hogarth quickly unscrewed the part under the wheel with one of the few tools he carried and pulled out the wiring; nothing crossed.

His eyes widened and then he looked down at the inconspicuous screw laying a half a foot from his knee. Hogarth grinned down at the immobile mandible piece proudly; he now knew his dream was very much realized.

_And real_, he thought as he got to work.

To be continued…


	16. The Missing Link: Pt 3 of 3

I. 1953, into the unknown...

"How are we doin'?" Johnston asked as he and Robert led the way into the enormous compound. Long shafts of light encircled the upright rectangle and made the forest behind them look like a pinpoint. Everyone's faces were obscured.

"_How we doin_' ?!" The 2nd Lt. whirled around and shouted to everyone, hands cupping his mouth. "We spooked yet?"

No one replied, his commanding officer gave him a stern look. Grinning, though reprieved, Robert turned around to focus on the mission at hand. One side of Johnston's mouth turned down and he looked away before Robbie could see.

The squadron found themselves entering a vast, virtually cube-like structure that branched off into parts unknown. Huge, half-hidden wings that towered some hundreds of feet above the very tiny human beings put a sense of awe into the small group like nothing they had ever witnessed.

"Gentlemen!" A disconcertingly congenial voice rose out to greet them. Johnston Curtis-Hughes squinted to see a man the size of Sasquatch emerging from the shadows.

His swept back hair and warm, watchful gaze made the goosebumps on Johnston's arms rise. This wasn't good.

Robert presented a united presense beside Johnny and the man immediately reacted as well. Behind them, the others quickly found their bearings. It wasn't often these men of war were taken off guard but the newcomer was pleasant.

"1st. Lt. Curtis, I presume?" He stuck his hand out.

His best friend took a step forward and accepted the offer quickly, shaking with abrupt force. The pleasant man only turned his smile on him casually. Johnston gave him a firm salute, "At your service," he answered swiftly, swallowing.

It was a hard swallow.

The attention returned back to him, a knowing glint entered the man's eye and he stepped back. "I'm afraid the task that will be required of you is a bit... unothodox." Something in his voice made Johnny step back. "Of course, 1st Lt., you are welcomed to leave," he gestured to the still open door.

Johnny turned to see it and it was merely a point of light.

"No," he turned back, more determined then confused, "I never turn down an assignment, neither do my men." The 1st Lt. could sense _his men_ exchanging looks. Robert was strict when he cleared his throat. "Unthodox or not, we're assigned to see this through 'til the end, Mr... um, I didn't-,"

"Sergei," the tall man again offered his hand, "Sergei M. Dulov." Johnny took three steps back as he and Robbie braced themselves back against their own men; it was a conjoint courage that brought them to where they stood now. "Gentlemen," Sergei raised his hands in an abashed good humor, "My family has always been with the regime of resistence. Why do you think I am here? Why were you _sent _here if not for peaceful means? Take me if you will..."

Johnny lowered his arms as Sergei offered his wrists.

"This wasn't part of the assignment," Robert attacked him.

"What wasn't?" Sergei grinned, never lowering his hands. "The part you weren't told or the part you are too terrified to be told about? Would it not be nice, my gentlefolk, if we did not have to form such rash opinions of our fellow man?"

Somehow, Johnston felt he could not disagree with him.

"What exactly are we doing?" He broached the obvious.

"Well," Sergei smiled pleasantly again. "If you are ready to leave your xenophobias at the door... it is not as if I will not get enough of it later on," he muttered under his breath, "I'll ask you to set aside your weapons, your knives and Zippos included, and to please follow my lovely assistant further into the compound." Sergei turned his jade-colored eyes.

Once Johnston was released from his hold, he turned to see the most gorgeous, raven-haired young woman he had ever laid eyes on. Truly, there was only one face standing in his way, keeping him from letting his awed gaze wander down it's natural course. Robert's elbow was like a combat knife.

"Oooff!" He stood up straight, looking comically unhinged.

The angular-faced beauty smiled at him... it was that same gentle eveness Sergei had, almost as if they were related. A small voice screamed at Johnny as he felt a sense of relief.

"Miss Lead, this is 1st. Lt. Johnston Curtis."

"_Hughes_," Johnny corrected with a grin, eagerly sticking out his hand. The woman smiled with what looked to be compassion and accepted his handshake. Her green eyes searched his blue eyes for something and, in a few short seconds, came up empty. "You were our guide, Ma'am?"

It was Sergei who cleared his throat this time: impatiently.

"Yes," she straightened and pulled her hand back, "If you will walk this way, please." Miss Lead turned on a clip of her strappy highheels and led the way. The 2nd Lt. met his 1st. Lt's. eyes and waited for orders; Johnston gave a nod.

Robert flicked his fingers forward and the squadron went without weapons behind their two commanders. It should have felt uncomfortable to Johnny, leaving all his weapons behind, but somehow he felt more free then he had in years.

Now all he needed to know was if his family was all right.

And, in the back of his heart, he needed them to know too.

To be continued...


	17. The Bolt, the Boy and the Behemoth

**I**

A large tendril rose over the alleyway Hogarth hid in. The long, narrow end formed a small orb which automatically increased in size like a stabilized implosion. The yellow, translucent ball of light quickly cast over in bright red, shooting out a deadly ray beam.

Where the nearly noiseless beam should have hit the large pile of garbage and cans, a reverberating blue light blasted out and refracted it. Suddenly, the candy-red Caddie shot out of the rubbage and skidded out onto the next street. Hogarth looked over his shoulder as the car, it's wires entangled around the inactive-looking screw, raced off.

He knew he should have been more interested in what was happening with the car, but he just felt compelled to look at the giant robot swathed in shadows. The large, dark behemoth slivered over the city, almost like it was apart of it. Hogarth's eyes grew and his mouth fell open a little as he saw that the expanding shadows of the metallic beast were so great, he couldn't tell if it left destruction in it's wake or not.

As his hair flew around him, Hogarth suddenly felt a thrill of fear. If this Godzilla of robots caught up with him… He clenched his teeth and moved around to the front. Somehow still in a state of suspended disbelief, Hogarth tried to recover the wheel and found it easily steerable in his grasp. When he looked up he witnessed the car moving up a steep road. Except, he gulped, there was no road. The teen built up a scream as the Cadillac was sent swooping around like an insane roller coaster. He blinked once and then, glancing at the screw, started to steer the car around giant, looping tendrils. Excited, exhilarated, Hogarth thought up something that was crazy.

"O.K…" He glanced back at the giant red eye that bore down on him. "Here we go!"

The teen turned quickly to see the midsection of the tendril they were coasting down coming up… and the giant, flat-fingered hand opening up to catch them; or possibly crush them. Hogarth thought of his best friend and gunned the engine. The car went flying over the fingers like a ramp. Multiple metal hands snapped about, literally trying to snatch him up out of the sky. Hogarth felt the weight of the car shift up and almost grinned as a wall of green obscured his vision. He plopped on his helmet and braced himself for the shattering crash. Excitement turned his frozen gut to water and he felt the car smooth into an almost streamline for an enormous forest. Hogarth saw to his amazement very tall power lines encasing the tree line . The teen looked at the approaching apocalypse behind him and the only thing he had in the world beside him. Hogarth then made the only decision he knew could save the sole-surviving piece of his old friend; he opened the door of the Cadillac going at top speed and did a years - perfected tuck-and-roll out of the car. Hogarth stood determinedly to face the king of drones as the screw bolt sped away in the Cadillac without him. He clenched his fists:

"I'm sorry, buddy." The color drained out of his face.

Hogarth pulled off his helmet and reached into his sock. The creature was like a force of nature; a pitch-black thunderhead creased in red coming to meet the stubborn boy who refused to die a coward. He placed his feet apart and lit the tiny cherry bomb with one of his few remaining matches. Hogarth creased his brow as the large metal hand reached out to seize him. His eyes flashed to the large power lines and he wheeled his arm back to chuck the salute up in the air. As the red bomb crackled and sizzled, Hogarth felt himself pause as he recalled an ensnared metal alien, the tortured cries of his best friend, his cry of pain as a tank shot his back. Hogarth blinked and lowered his hand. Before the explosion of the bomb went off, something made of metal flipped him up into the air. Hogarth rolled across the hood of the Cadillac and was dumbstruck when he found himself speeding backwards from the ensuing metal hand. Something jerked him back and glass hit the top of his head. He sighed and felt himself blackout.

When Hogarth came to he saw the giant hand reaching out for him again as he sped backwards into the forest — some unnatural force holding him back — to which he quietly growled between his teeth and did a backwards flip over the glass. The teen landed squarely in the driver's seat, wrenching the transmission to **D** by the wheel.

Hogarth launched himself right at the monstrous beast with no hesitation this time. The teen grabbed at the bulb and screamed as it jettisoned them up in the air. He made sure the wheel angled right with his left hand and felt the entire frame shake violently again as he landed on a metal tendril. Hogarth grinned and gunned the Cadillac forward.

He was just about to drive it off the midsection again when he felt the sides of his car pegged with laser fire. Hogarth successfully resisted the rational urge to scream again as he flew like a hotshot over the bent limb. At least five sets of hands came clashing together in their attempts to clasp Hogarth. He had to brace himself against the leather seat and hold on tight as the rear of the red car fishtailed away from Drone-zilla. As soon as the car righted itself, Hogarth anxiously floored it.

The teen sped away and zigzagged around desolated piles of the city. Dust from cement and dirt were everywhere but while night driving came easily to Hogarth, disaster driving was second nature to him. He quickly found the obvious escape route through what he presumed was downtown and cruised by buildings that were miraculously still standing. Hogarth deliberately fishtailed around a rubbage pile, grinning, and ended up at a jagged cliff where the dust clouds rolled off into nothing.

He was already reeling from his biggest drone heist yet:

"Heh-heh..." Hogarth flopped his head back drunkenly on the headrest, chuckling, "That was awesome!" he took a closer look at the car, "Oh... yeah, now that is definitely the improvement I was talking about." The Caddie was nearly in shambles. He grinned at the bolt. "A bite mark or two-,"

The hood blew off as the engine rose high in flames.

"_Gehd_-!" Hogarth fumbled fast for the seat belt he didn't remember fastening and, grabbing the bolt, bolted toward the city. He watched as the unnamed man's car became a miniature sun, recalling what he'd had to do to keep warm.

The emptiness he staved off came back to his face and he looked with a speculative awe down at the bolt. His eyes widened a little as he saw the light he'd been searching for fill some unseen part inside of him. Hogarth grasped at his chest and pulled up his shirt. He ignored the burn wounds and scars as he touched his heart. The teen looked with a sense of uncertainty at the bolt; it wasn't bleeping. There was no light now… but somehow, Hogarth could feel it. The earth shuddered.

Hogarth switched his eyes up as a black, moving mountain with at least eight tentacles slithered over towards him. He quickly flew behind the burning car, used a few pieces from the Caddie conflagration on his arms and face, then crumpled himself up under a pile of wood. _BANG BANG BANG!_ The noise hadn't really left that much of an impact in the city. A big tentacle rose over him and the flat, metal hand crunched the burning car together, sending embers flying over Hogarth's hiding place. He didn't breathe, he didn't move. Even as the fire started to catch, he sensed the robot rear back and toss the flaming vehicle into the voidless pit. Again, another shudder.

Then there was nothing.

Hogarth quickly tossed off the flaming "2 '4's and turned with huge eyes to see that the smoke was completely gone. The machine, he saw, had also disappeared. Ragged, dirty and just a little dazed, Hogarth stumbled awkwardly a bit before he stopped and realized that everything aside from himself looked normal. The teen tugged at his ripped shirt and cast one final look out at what was an open, rocky valley dotted with the occasional spruce. Hogarth inhaled deeply.

"Not gonna question it," he exhaled in a mumble and then looked wryly down at his clothes again. "Maybe it's time for a new shirt."

The teen placed his bolt back in his pocket and calmly left what he hoped was the last instance of the apocalypse he ever wanted to see again. Hogarth was going to find the Iron Giant if he had to check every skyscraper and pinetree in this weird robot city.

To be continued...


End file.
